


Mercy On Those

by everybodylies



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-29
Updated: 2012-07-29
Packaged: 2017-11-11 00:09:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/472272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everybodylies/pseuds/everybodylies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After months of being Sherlock Holmes' lone supporter, John finds it harder and harder to believe. Lucky for him, an old friend appears to get him back on track.<br/><em>Six months after Sherlock's death, John exits the taxi outside his flat to the scent of spray paint lingering in the air.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Mercy On Those

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by all that "I believe in Sherlock Holmes" stuff going around on tumblr.

Six months after Sherlock's death, John exits the taxi outside his flat to the scent of spray paint lingering in the air. Curious, he follows the scent down the alley, finding a familiar face in the process. The man flinches at the sound of John's footsteps, ready to flee, but once he realizes who it is, he relaxes and returns to his work.

"Long time no see, huh?"

John sighs as his mind flashes back to two years ago, it must have been. He remembers that case so clearly, remembers the horribly late nights, the deadly gunfight in the museum, the kidnapping and mistaken identity fiasco… and _damn_ does he miss it. There's a hole in his life now, where the chase used to be, where a man used to be.

John racks his brain, shifts through the memories. "The name's Raz, right?" Raz pauses a second and considers before adding another yellow line to the brick wall.

"Yep, that's me," he replies, turning to John with a smirk. "That's a good memory you've got there. Almost as good as his." Raz doesn't need to specify; John knows who he's talking about. "You like this? It's my new side project. Soon every building in London's gonna sport one like this."

John takes a moment to look at Raz's work so far. The yellow paint he's using is remarkably similar to that of the chinese mafia's he and Sherlock had come to Raz for help with. Perhaps Raz had chosen it for that specific reason.

"I believe in Sherlock Holmes?" John reads out loud. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Raz shrugs. "You've seen the news, haven't you? People are calling him a fake."

"And you don't believe that?" asks John, completely taken by surprise. In the last six months, Raz was the only person John had met who didn't believe what the press said about Sherlock. (Well, that wasn't including the bug-eyed conspiracy theorists who jumped out at him from dusty corners whenever he visited the library or bookstore, but they didn't count.) He flinches when the previously easygoing Raz suddenly shoots him a glare.

"And you do?"

"I… I don't know!"

Raz shakes his head, disappointed, and a frustrated John leans his forehead onto the cold bricks. It manages to calm him down.

"I thought you were his friend."

"I was! … I am." He clenches his fist, walks up and down the alley, desperate to escape from the sting of Raz's disapproving eyes. "But Moriarty, he erased it all, everything. So the entirety of England is convinced that Sherlock was a fraud, and all I've got against that is in my memory. And I am not Sherlock, and my brain is not infallible."

John looks up and Raz is finishing up his work. The graffito is neat, with an air of sinister, and John is sure it will strike doubt into many Londoners' hearts.

Massaging his temples, John continues. "Here, do you know what they say about people who go insane?" Shaking his head, Raz raises his eyebrows. "They say that if you were going crazy, you wouldn't know about it. In your mind, you'd be the sane one while the rest of the world slowly goes insane around you." Raz gives John more of a sympathetic look this time, and perhaps that's even worse. "Sherlock was real. He wasn't a fake. I keep repeating and repeating that, and no one believes me. But what if I'm the one who's wrong? What if the ninety-nine percent of the population that believes the opposite are in the right? Doesn't that seem more likely?"

"Look," and Raz's voice is so full of certainty, John feels that perhaps, a bit of it passes on to him, "you saw him, saw his deductions didn't you? I did, too. He explained them to you, and there was no magic, no concealment, just cold hard logic that the rest of us are too slow to see."

"He told me himself. Said he was a fake," John points out. This is what's been bothering him, ever since the fall. That one sentence had lodged in his brain, took hold, and never let go. Not only was the entire country against John, but Sherlock, the man himself, was, too. Raz looks him in the eye.

"He was lying." And that's all John really needed: someone to tell him that he wasn't crazy. Lestrade wouldn't speak of Sherlock anymore, to save his job. Mrs. Hudson didn't enjoy that topic at all and John didn't want to distress her. And Molly was weird these days, skittish all the time. He knew Sherlock was real, he really did deep down, but sometimes being an army of one against the world got hard. He was alone. At least, until now.

Raz tosses John the half filled can he was using and then packs up with a practiced quickness. John catches it uneasily. Raz doesn't need to speak; the message is clear. _Help me._

"I'm not much of an artist," John warns. Raz shrugs, a lopsided grin appearing on his face.

"Hey!" A police officer sprints around the corner. "Stop that!" This time, John knows to run.


End file.
